Late Night
by behind-the-glass
Summary: Set in a slightly alternative future of Smallville. How did it turn out for Lex?


**Late night**

Night fell across the city and while the office building finally resigned into silence, the hustle in the streets below brought a reassuring buzz to the dark room. All was fine with the world. Life outside the glass tower went on as usual in the safety of the common mind. Common, an insult if ever used to describe him. Common people looking for something exceptional on a friday night to brag about come monday morning, when they returned to their blissfully ignorant existence. Mundane in the most boring sense of the word. Each of them still trying so hard to be special among the herd and not recognizing the irony.

Only the bright lights from the billboard across the street, displaying the latest scientific breakthrough by his company, illuminate the man staring blankly at the skies. Maybe a fire, an explosion or at least a car crash would offer him a glimpse. It had been almost two weeks since he'd laid eyes on the city's savior. The strange man Metropolis' population came to depend on after over four years of saving those who couldn't be bothered to apply common sense themselves.

With his latest miracle appearance he saved twenty-two lives, children, men and women all guided to safety by their hero. A gas explosion had set an old apartment building on fire. Safety codes and fire exits be damned, everyone above the first floor would have been destined for certain death among the flames or be among the lucky ones and simply suffocate. After only seven minutes everyone was brought to safety. Only the scorched brick stones and heavy smell in the air lingered as evidence of what had just happened. It made the front page the next day, but it wasn't the headline. A little blurb in the bottom right corner left praise for the previous night's effort.

He wonders when it will finally be banished to be just another story. A story that has to be reported on. Not because it was special, not because some lives were saved, but simply out of habit. Ancient populations offered their gods virgin sacrifices to appease them, the 21st century could barely even be asked to give a simple nod. Will it start slowly? At first, instead of front page news a short little recap on the second page? Or full throttle with just a score like the latest sports results on the last pages?

A running tally would be nice he decides. He knows the number. They probably won't get it right though, not even close. Because he doesn't brag and they need to see it happen. Not just with their own eyes, mind you. It has to be captured on film as not to simply play it off as divine intervention. If he exists so must god, became the popular reasoning among the churches and lunatics across the globe. The only concept all different religions could agree on, was the exploitation of someone trying to do good. And what a profitable business cults were having all of a sudden.

Two months ago a cruise liner sank on the west coast. Over five hundred people on board, one minute having the time of their lives and scrambling to the lifeboats in the next. At nine thirty seven at night the ship sent the distress call. At nine thirty four an earthquake had hit India. He saved thousands of lives, just not those onboard of the Atlantic Pride. Twenty-nine drowned in the cold October Sea.

All the news stations across the country had been ablaze for weeks, expressing their disappointment in saving those foreigners while letting his countrymen die. Where was his loyalty they asked? He smiled at their ignorance then and even thinking about it now it brings a little smirk to his face. So endearingly American, let the all so American indestructible flying man be a citizen when it suits you, but threaten to banish him if he doesn't behave the way they came to expect him to.

A quick glance reveals it's already close to midnight. The streets are alive with the first drunks, stumbling their way across to the next bar and everything seems as ordinary as ever. What a pity. Maybe give it a couple more hours and then let the drinks guide him to rest.

He can oversee the whole district from his window, one of the reasons he had this tower built in the first place. From nowhere in the city limits anyone has a better view of what was going on in the streets. At least not those who couldn't fly themselves.

Just four blocks east, the Daily Planet logo is still glowing softly.

While he tries to lose himself in images from the past, he can't help but wonder what it would take to bring him here, just for him. Would he consider him worthy enough to be saved? What would he do if he were in his place? Well, he'd lose those overly pretentious glasses, he smirked. But would he save himself?

No, he doesn't want to go there. Not tonight. Not again. And he doesn't really want to know, because either way the uncertainty would end. And at least uncertainty leaves place for hope. He knows he doesn't want his last thought to be, how he deserved it, even if it was the truth.

It's almost one o'clock now, time for the first brandy he decides. The warm burn in his throat somehow never seems to help enough to make him feel alive again, but at least it's a journey that ends with some hours of rest in the next morning. Blackout or sleep, whatever comes first, he'd welcome either the same. Maybe he has been working too much lately. Christmas time always seems to sneak up on him somehow, bringing back the old habits of burying himself in work. No one dares to express any pity for him, all alone during the holidays; they know better and those who didn't know well enough, can share their newly gained wisdom with their new employer.

Could it be, that people were left to their own devices? It's only the twenty-third, well technically, now past midnight, the twenty fourth, but still too early for him to have gone home. Since his father died his mother spent most of the holidays in the city anyway. Maybe this year, they'd be here at Christmas. And even if not, he would still be able to hear the pleas for help no matter how god-forsake his Kansas' hometown was.

He clearly remembers the time before he had to hand over his superhero to the whole world. Maybe less handing over, than simply walking away to a brighter future. How his then best friend came to his rescue out of nowhere. His former plant was a good twenty miles away from wherever the teenager could have possibly been, so being lucky enough to hang around the neighborhood wasn't an excuse. He didn't cry for help or even called the police, he was willing to sacrifice his life to keep his secrets. No former employee could have made him confess to what was going on below the last official level of his buildings and so he took the bullet to keep his treasure. Almost four years ago, if he recalls correctly.

He remembers the sound of the trigger, fading in and out of consciousness, the taste of iron on his lips and the strong arms that carried him to the ambulance. The rest is a blur. Not because he can't remember, but because he decided that day, he won't.

After that it all took a turn for the worse. He figured a long time ago, that although he was able to conceal his secret floors from his disgruntled worker, he probably wasn't lucky enough to hide it from the boy with the bright smile. The smile he had last seen directed at him as the ambulance carried him away. He thought about all the good reasons that made him conduct his experiments and research, thought about explaining how all he ever wanted was the truth and how he would never betray the trust of a boy, willing to save his life, when the whole town whished his whole family had never existed. Every day he thought about it, still does, if he is honest with himself, but the more time he took to get the message right the further away the recipient drifted.

Nowadays they barely manage to exchange polite small talk, when meeting at public events. A little more than the average reporter and run-of-the-mill billionaire are able to come up with, but still even less than the first day they met. It's a shame really.

The brandy has finally lost its soothing effect, no more warmth or flush in his throat. Only on his fourth glass, usually he can at least enjoy six, just the right amount to exhaust him enough to get to sleep. Must be one of those nights, he curses as he pours another glass. A little hum in his body, only the slightest buzz, but still not enough. Although he empties his bottles on a regular basis, the bar is always fully stocked. Maybe his assistant deserves a little raise for her efforts. She never asked and he never had to tell her.

Seventy two stories, he looks down and wonders if he ever really counted them himself. He knows there are at least seventy two floors, he's been on all of them, but there could be more. Maybe he could make sure on the way down? It was a clear night and billboard illuminated his side of the building well enough, so he should be able to see. But would he be able to count fast enough? He starts a trial run and counts to six, but his thoughts drift again. Would he save himself? Has he contributed enough to for the well-being of humanity to be considered important enough to be rescued?

The windows actually open all the way in his office. None of the others above the first floor do. None, he made that very clear. Only he knows the reason why and it's not because he was suicidal when he built the place, like his architect, contractor and god knows who thought. He simply wanted a more convenient exit and entrance for…different people. One, to be precise.

The building has been completed for over three years now. A first step into a brighter future; a cornerstone of the new business district in Metropolis. This entrance has never been used.

His chair gives a soft cracking sound as he lowers himself back into it, returning to his nightly observation position. Not a sign of needing replacement, but simply a byproduct of leather chairs. As he fold himself further into his seat, he can see is reflection in the spotless window glass. The impressive office table behind him with neatly sorted papers on top, the bar to his left and a wall of monitors to his right. The interior reduced to what he considered the bare necessities. After an especially uncomfortable night spent in his chair he contemplated adding a couch to this list, but just the idea of spending the night here, asleep on purpose, removed that notion. Sleep was not the objective, it was a necessary inconvenience. If he wanted to sleep, he had plenty of beds available, not only those in the countless properties he owned, but enough women and men, who didn't even try to be subtle in their advances, were willing to share their beds for a simple exchange of benefits.

People always expect to be made an offer and when they aren't they'll take matters into their own hands. No conversation can come to an end, without being oh so subtle redirected to all the benefits each party would gain from signing this paper, buying that product or simply spending this amount of money. Money can buy a lot of superficial appreciation.

That's one thing they have in common. He's pretty sure their hero in tights wasn't able to enjoy himself amongst other people either. Either he was needed to avert a catastrophe mankind hasn't learned to handle themselves yet or dragged out for a press call. Being a reporter, it would have been hypocritical not giving in to at least some of the demands of the public media. So every couple of months he made the necessary appearances, reassuring the world he is still keeping an eye out for the human race. After more than four years, his own collection of press reports, newscasts and photographs had grown enough to occupy its own wing at the mansion.

But just having a conversation, let alone a romantic dinner didn't seem like something that could be enjoyed, while the world watches and waits for you to go back to business; the business of solving their problems. Of course there were plenty women and men enamored with the idea of bedding this extraordinary creature, but as he had learned himself the hard way, reality can never satisfy those expectations. He didn't learn it the first time and he'd be lying if he said it was after his second affair, it took him four divorces. But he still counts himself lucky to at least have gotten out of them alive.

The flyboy seemed to have gotten a handle on things faster. Maybe all the fawning over his then neighbor girl taught him a lesson, but frankly even when he was just sixteen he seemed one step ahead of everyone else. And he has to admit, this includes him too, otherwise they wouldn't be in the situation they are in right now. It only took him one half romantic rescue of his alter-ego's coworker to realize how he wouldn't be able to live up to her expectations. He is pretty sure, he'd tried to give her the moon and the stars, but that simply wasn't enough.

So she's had her chance; every day from nine to five, to fall in love with the guy hiding behind the fake glasses. Instead she only fancied the idea of spending her nights in bed with the world's hero. She wasn't willing to pick her own, so in the end she ended up with her perfect fantasy.

There was no announcement, no press release, he just knew. If he'd been watching the public superhuman closely, the way he'd followed his alter ego went beyond stalking. The weeks after he let go of his ambitions to get his coworker to realize the man she had been yearning for was spending most of his days sitting one desk over; anyone who'd known the man could see the resignation in his eyes. Destined to be alone, it screamed. He knows the look; although he doesn't need to shave he still owns enough mirrors to know he has the same.

Almost three in the morning, still no sign of sleep, but at least the buzz is still there, his whole body slowly humming. Each step across the room now almost like floating. As he fishes for a second bottle, the first, now empty one, simply disregarded on the counter. Come next day it will have magically disappeared and be replaced with a new one. Maybe not a raise, but a bonus. A nice little amount to show her efforts are appreciated. Seems more appropriate, he supposes.

The leather chair is suddenly too hot and uncomfortable at this hour. So he plots himself down next to the window. Bottle and glass safely placed beside him, he presses his cheek against the cool surface. From this angle he swears he can see the ocean. The ocean on the other side of the building; the one that isn't facing the city's most prominent newspaper.

Most of the lights are still turned on. Maybe some have just been turned after midnight; he should have paid more attention earlier. He wonders if he's still there; working on his latest scoop for the early edition. It's been a while since he read an article by him. Over the years he's learned to read those signs too. Whenever his superhuman side was facing too much public scrutiny or was simply overwhelmed with the world's demands, his safety zone personality would also suffer. And why wouldn't it? Who could expect anyone to perform at the highest levels day and night? Most people couldn't even life up to the expectations of their day jobs, including those professions where people's lives weren't depending on them to make the right the decision every single time.

When the critiques first put their pens to paper to list their expectations from their personal savior and demand apologies for things they deemed personal affronts to them, he considered speaking out. Unfortunately, support from the untouchable business mogul would probably have sent the wrong signal. So he held his tongue and waited for the alter-ego's coworker to come to speak up in his place. She didn't. No one else did either. It happened at the end of his first year on duty as the city's personal lifeguard. May, he remembers. Almost eleven months of people being rescued from certain death. In his count three hundred and nineteen lives extended by the man in the sky.

After not even eleven months, people could no longer be asked to be grateful for the times he was there, but rather demanded an explanation for those when he wasn't.

Three years later he is still on duty. Saving the lives of people that probably didn't deserve his mercy. Just like he did when he was a teenager.

What keeps him going, he wonders. How can get himself up to the same chores every single day? It's not like a war he can win. Accidents happen, people will die. Not only is it part of natural selection, but the uncertainty that came with death is part of what drives humankind. Make the most of each moment or you may not live to regret your choice. He was way too drunk to still be thinking, but painfully enough not drunk enough to stop those thoughts altogether. Over the years he's become an expert in evoking his inner demons on demand.

Humans will always choose the easy way out. They may hesitate, when they know they are being watched, but in the end only a few are willing to make sacrifices for someone else. Few enough to be explained away as a statistical error, an unexplained anomaly, he'd concluded this himself, when he was still a young boy. After the meteor rocks had altered him for the entire world to see; only people his father paid would give him the time of day. Obviously his father wasn't among them. But he'd already been used to being ignored when no immediate lecture was deemed necessary. Other boys his age only spent their time with him to ridicule what was left. He'd tried to make friends at first, but resigned after each rejection landed him back in the corner of his mother's room. Even though she'd been gone for over a year before his accident, he still thought he could smell her, sitting there under a blanked she made for his birthday.

If given the choice, humans will always pick the path of least resistance. He was no different when he was one of them. At first he ran away and hid, when he grew older his defenses became more offensive. Can't get hurt, if you strike first. He faintly remembers how being human felt.

He wonders where he's put the blanket. Last time he's seen it was after graduating from Harvard and before being outcast by his father. Before Kansas had broken his heart.

The once cold surface of the glass against his cheek has become sleek with his body heat. He shifts a little forward, inadvertently moving closer to the current focus of his attention. It's three past four in the morning. The first papers of the day should already be out of press. He has them delivered to his office every day throughout the year. Also one copy for each his penthouse and mansion.

He doesn't want to take the elevator down to the night guard who had probably already collected the latest edition. Well, less the absence of want than ability to be precise. Right now even standing up seems like an impossible task. Can't call the guard up either. No matter how low he may have fallen, his pride is still well enough not to let anyone see what he has become.

Again the glass has turned sweaty against him. A few inches forward, some yet to be touched surface and a little closer to his fatal point of attention.

The last time he's physically been at the Planet was a charity benefit in august. He doesn't remember who had needed the money, couldn't even remember it during the actual event back then. Far more distracting thoughts had occupied his mind the minute he'd laid eyes on the congregation. He'd given more than the expected amount and even got a thank you from his no longer friend. No words beyond that. The young reporter was accompanied, or rather closely followed, by the editor in chief who wanted to get the latest gossip from the hard to pin down billionaire. When he'd finally tired the man down enough to get another look around the party, he man behind the glasses had already slipped out. Holding up a bridge near Toledo as next day's newspaper reported.

He can't remember when he opened the second bottle as he pours what is still left into his glass. Only a slight hum, no impending darkness, no sleep either. Maybe his overdeveloped immune system was playing his latest cruel joke on him. If his drinking habit had been diagnosed as a disease he'd never be able to escape his mind again. He doesn't even want to start comprehending the impact this could have. Most drugs had already lost their effect on him…

Seventy two stories. The sun was already rising in the east, he could see the clouds of dust, dawn brought on the horizon. The streets below seemed empty and hollow. Only a few unlucky ones were forced out in the cold December morning. The crowd from last night had already dissipated and probably found their ways into someone's bed.

Seven thirty his watch tells him. Three hours he can't remember. Maybe he'd fallen asleep? He doesn't feel rested, tired neither though. Getting up still doesn't seem like such a good idea, but he's in no hurry. This spot next to the window is just as good as any other. No place to be, no one to meet. All of his staff has the week off to celebrate the holidays with their loved ones. Only essential personnel are on rotation.

Somehow in the gleaming sunlight the windows are no longer as tempting as they were during the night before. The bright rays breaking through the clouds are slowly starting to cast a blinding light over the office. Moving himself is still not appealing, but even behind closed eyes he can see the bright spots of the new day. Soon he will have to leave and seek cover. Moving no longer a choice, if he doesn't want to suffer sunburn. Right now, the window is still somewhat cool against his cheek, but already he can feel the change coming on. Once the morning sun has fully hit the glass tower, touching it's surface will be a punishment instead of the short relief it brought him hours before.

His eyes remain closed as he slowly starts to prepare himself to get up. One more minute. The least he could do is enjoy the sunrays before he hides away in his apartment, he tells himself. He forces himself to relax. One steady breath he's reminded of breeze in late July during harvest season, the warm glow so reminiscent of golden crops covering the land as far as the eye could see. Memories of a simpler time. No matter how harsh a punishment it had seemed at the time, how often has he wished to be able to return and not make the same mistakes again. Suddenly the bright light is gone. Like a shadow has been cast over him.

He slowly shifts to his side and opens his eyes. The bright blaze hits him with its full force. Whatever it was blocking the sunlight a moment ago had disappeared. Here one moment, gone in the blink of an eye. Just a figment of his imagination? Was his mind playing tricks on all his senses now?

Maybe it was time to leave.

_Disclaimer:__ Neither Smallville, nor any of the characters are mine as one might have already guessed correctly. Rights on republishing and archiving on this story however are and may be granted after enquiry._


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